


Exponential Entropy

by Nephiam



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: A bit all over the place but hey it helps the immersion, Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward Spoilers, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Maybe I'll come back and edit this, Mentioned Archbishop Thordan VII, Mentioned Aymeric de Borel, Mentioned Estinien Wyrmblood, Mentioned Lucia Junius, New Game Plus, Non-English Source, Spoilers, Time Loop, Time Travel, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 14:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30107667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nephiam/pseuds/Nephiam
Summary: Forward and back and then forward and backAnd then go forward and back, then put one foot forward.[. . .]Falling back right into the system ofFalling back on all that's erasedWhen fighting back right out of this systemMeans falling back right into this space.
Relationships: Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Exponential Entropy

The Lord of Camp Dragonhead lifts his head, lashes fluttering open with a vague sense of confusion and looming dread. Icy blue eyes dart around the room, a subtle hint of agony rapidly setting in his features.

Again.

With a long sigh, he takes a look at his documents, knowing full well what’s written in them. He has, after all, read them dozens of times by now. He could recite them from memory by now. The low sound of rummaging through papers fills the room as the tired elezen makes time before the Warrior of Light storms through the main door. It will happen any moment.

It takes less than a couple minutes for the Warrior to arrive. Haurchefant’s eyes dart upwards at the heavy noise of the door opening, a cold and unforgiving breeze coming through. Her slow steps reveal just how tired she is. That would make the two of us, Haurchefant thinks with just the shadow of a sad smile.

She’s clad in a dark blue armor, a surcoat partially made from chainmail, hugging her body. High, dark boots, gloves and black breeches, nothing adorning her head this time around. A halberd considerably bigger than her rests on her back, as if it doesn't weigh at all.

Ah. So she’s a lancer this time around.

Haurchefant wonders why she’s a different kind of adventurer each time he meets her. She was a conjurer originally. White mage, she called herself. A really powerful force of nature, he recalls. She could heal the injured and command the elements to utterly destroy her enemies. Never before had he seen such powerful, slashing gusts of wind, or the very soil obeying the commands of a single person like that.

The second time she was an archer, a bard of incredible skills. Her soothing voice would fill the air during the morrows, just as the sun was rising. Each day she spent in Camp Dragonhead was a day the soldiers would work even harder than usual, their spirits lifted by song and her presence. In battle, her arrows were fast, and her voice inspired the hearts of others -Haurchefant included-, and they felt stronger than ever. The hymns she sang felt true, powerful, magical.

She, too, came to him wielding a gigantic axe, way too big for her to carry around. He still wonders to this day how she could swing it with such easy, such agility. No enemy was able to stand in her path, such was the power of her storming attacks. That one time was the one she was more determined, sheer tenacity shining as much as her axe’s edge.

A dark rod enveloped in darkness followed the axe, and with it, his Warrior became a black mage. She seemed such a frail thing at the time, like everything would be able to overpower her, but the fire in her veins was true and lethal, and still her enemies inevitably perished before her might. That blazing inferno of a person was one of his favorite iterancies of the Warrior; watching her figure engulfed in flame and thunder of her own doing was exhilarating to him. He couldn’t keep his eyes away from the warmth of her.

“Lord Haurchefant Greystone, I assume?”

Ah, he has lost track of his thoughts. With each regression it becomes more and more difficult to stop thinking about her. He was already infatuated with the Warrior of Light the first time, that much was obvious to him, to everyone around him and he hoped that it was obvious to her, too. Alas, she never acknowledged it, so the elezen never made a move. She has the world to conquer, her destiny is way bigger than you, he convinced himself, and bottled those feelings inside.

“You’re correct. An adventurer, right? Pray tell me why you have come.”

An adventurer, right? The lord asks, as if he doesn’t know. As if he has not followed her steps, battled alongside her, _died for her_.

The dim light of the headquarters frames her silhouette as she searches through her bags to grab a letter. He knows, he remembers the letter. Haurchefant doesn’t need her to hand it to him, he knows it by heart already.

The lord makes conversation with her, appears surprised and tells her what he has told her a few times already. It’s natural to him, now. He tries to keep everything as close to the first time as possible, in terms of her. What if he saved Francel without her help? What if he handed the _Enterprise_ without the actual hassle to her? They would never become allies. He would never properly meet her. What would become of her after that Banquet? Would she come to him, like the first time, like every time afterwards?

Maybe not interfering with her would save _him_ , but would that save _her_? Would she die, had he not been there to stop that spear? He really, really doesn’t want to know.

  
  


He’s prepared to die for her again if it comes to that. So far, nothing that he tried has worked. He got a better shield, enchanted it. Died anyway. He tried to warn the Warrior of Light, but it didn’t matter, she still ran and ran. Maybe this time he should tie her, lock her up in the manor and don’t let her out of his sight. Maybe he should.

He couldn’t possibly do that, though. Who would believe a single knight speaking about the future? In what position would leave him if he actually were to tie the Warrior up and imprison her?

Haurchefant eventually sends the Warrior of Light away. He knows what she’ll do, who she’ll visit, what she’ll find.

Only he knows what the future holds for both of them.

* * *

The piercing sound of an arrow breaks through the noise of battle, directly hitting the wyvern in the neck. It growls, then screeches, then wavers and falls to the ground with a thud. It lays there, motionless, just the same as its heretic masters around the group.

The Warrior of Light lowers her simple bow, a defiant and proud smile written all over her face. She knows she has won. Sheer confidence radiates from her as she ducks to get a draconian rosary from the snow-filled ground.

Accusations are thrown but Haurchefant knows it won’t lead to anything. This battle, too, he remembers well enough. His mind drifts away from the boring conversation with this fake “Inquisitor Guillaume”.

Instead, he can only think of the Warrior, yet again.

Last time, he grabbed his friend by the wrist just as she charged forwards against the Archbishop, but was only met with a gaze of pure urgency. He let go instinctively, and cursed himself for it, for as soon as he did, she was already jumping far away from him. And yet again, it didn’t matter how hard he tried, how much he improved his shield. The piercing lance did its job flawlessly, as each time before.

And, as each time, he asked her to smile for him. At least he would have a beautiful image in his head as he woke up yet again.

This time he’s measuring her prowess with the bow. Yet another weapon, yet another school of battle altogether, and this one, too, she masters. It doesn’t matter how many years he has been prisoner in this loop, battling alongside her and watching her fight always renews his raging love for her.

It always renews his will to save her.

* * *

The first time it happened Haurchefant almost died from shock less than a minute later.

He had died. He was sure he had died. The spear had pierced him, of that he was sure. He distinctly remembered the Warrior’s face, her beautiful smile, before everything turned black. Had he asked for her to smile? He wasn’t sure.

He remembered her, panicking, trying to use her conjuring skills to save him. He remembered her hands on his stomach, fighting uselessly to mend his flesh, his blood splattering the floor. She did her best for him. That made Haurchefant happy.

Dying, so she could keep on living, was an honor. Of course, he would have liked to live… The lord had so much work to do, so much world to see. He wanted for this mess of a war to end, to see a better Ishgard. A stronger Ishgard, one that didn’t pin highborn against lowborn. One that didn’t embrace tradition over the lives of its people. 

But, alas…

It wasn’t the worst way to die. He didn’t die tempered, at the very least. His death served a purpose. He had known he would eventually perish in this way, so it was a knight’s end.

And so, when he woke up yet again in Coerthas, sitting before his desk, the elezen lord almost had a heart attack. A mountain of documents filled the table. Haurchefant tried his best to remain calm on the outside, but the flurry of questions filled his mind in less than a second. He could feel his hands trembling, the cold sweat on his nape, the chill on his spine. Is this some sort of punishment? Am I already dead, is this my own personal Neverending-Work-Hell? Was everything a dream? Did I go back in time? How is this even possible?

With a slight tremor in his voice, he finally faced Corentiaux and asked the awkward question.

“Corentiaux? It seems I may have dozed off for a bit. May you remind me of what day is today?”

“My lord…? ...Ah,” the elezen paused for a moment, a worried expression painting his face, “so many times we have told you to rest properly, and you yet brush our concerns aside…”

Haurchefant didn’t even have time to complain about his very healthy, absolutely necessary sleep schedule, before the sound of the gate opening startled him. His nerves were on edge, even the buzzing of a fly could ring all his alarms. It wasn’t a fly what entered the headquarters, but something else entirely.

There she was. The Warrior of Light.

For a moment, Haurchefant smiled. Hope! Hope incarnate had come to him in his moment of panic, of fear.

It didn’t take him long to notice her armor, her mannerisms and lack of scars. She looked splendid as always, but also younger. More hopeful. Less crushed by the trials and sadness and struggles that he remembered so well. She carried a book at her hip, instead of a staff at her back.

His heart dropped.

“Lord Haurchefant Greystone, I assume?” his Warrior asked, “Lord Francel asks for your help, and so do I.” She rummages the bag holding from her waist, pulling a small letter, sealed with Haillenarte’s emblem. 

“Ah.”

That was all he could muster. So he was right?

He took the letter, and read the contents. Francel was being accused of heresy. Yet again. Or for the first time, as it seemed.

Haurchefant’s mind was racing with possibilities. 

He considered that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t a punishment. Maybe this was a blessing. Maybe Halone Herself considered his death a mistake. Maybe they could save more people. Maybe he could save himself!

* * *

_She's dying._

She’s dying in his arms and there’s nothing he can do about it. He’s no conjurer, no chirurgeon. The bleeding won’t stop, her breaths becoming ragged by the second. She closes her eyes, and smiles weakly.

This is a first, and he can’t even fathom how this could happen. 

When he jumped right to save her, she pushed him aside. Tried to block the aetherial spear with her own shield, a golden aura enveloping her form. Haurchefant could swear he saw the Warrior smirk, a beaming smile that could -and would, if she ever tried- melt Coerthas’ neverending snows.

_“Lord Edmont would never forgive me if something happened to you. Nor I.”_

A Warrior so strong, so brave, so bright. Brighter even than the sun itself, stronger even than Halone herself. But even that was not enough.

What hope would he have of stopping that gods-damned spear, when even _she_ couldn’t?

By now, he should be dead. By now, he should be already in his quarters in Camp Dragonhead, brimming with grief and anger. If he’s not dead by now, will this curse be lifted? Will this gods-forsaken soul be free?

Being free just like this, though, is a curse far worse than the one before. How could he ever think of this as something else than a curse? A blessing, even?

She’s hope incarnate, a savior, the scourge of everything evil in this world. He should be the one to die, Halone be damned.

He hugs her tighter. Her already small frame seems even smaller in his arms, devoid of her ever growing strength as she is right now.

“Oh, Haurchefant,” she whispers in the tiniest of voices, “I wish we had more time together.”

Hiding his face in her hair, the lord mutters her name and makes promises of meeting again, of accompanying her in future endeavors. His hand finds the Warrior’s face and caresses her cheek with the gentleness of a friend, the intimacy of a lover. She cuddles into his hand.

“And when we’re tired, and hurting all over, we’ll come back to Dragonhead. I’ll wrap you in warm blankets and attend to every whim you have…”

The woman looks at him with half-lidded eyes. What beautiful eyes, Haurchefant thinks, full of life, and light, and love, almost glowing with the hopes of thousands placed in them.

“Hmm. That sounds lovely...” she sighs, with an increasingly tinier voice that makes the elezen shiver. Looking at her is becoming increasingly hard, tears filling his eyes. Some of them would fall onto her cheeks and neck and he would wipe them with his shaky thumb. “Please, don’t cry.”

A smile better suits a hero, he had said before. It felt so far away, so long ago.

He had died many times, and would die a thousand more if that meant saving her again from this ill-suited fate.

A sudden groan escapes the Warrior of Light’s lips. Her brows are furrowed, pain clearly written in her face.

“Hmmm-hm, this is probably… ugh, probably selfish of me, but,” she mumbles, “I’d forever regret… not saying it now.”

“Please, please save your strength, the chirurgeons…”

“Oh, Haurchefant. We both know I’m dying here… Let me… Let me be selfish before,” she coughs, blood staining her lips and chin but never erasing the faint smile off her face, “just let me be selfish before it happens.”

He chokes a sob, and nods. His hair is sticky against his skin, and tears are making a mess of his face, perfectly reflecting the mess he’s feeling inside. His embrace is becoming shakier by the minute, and who could blame him for it? The love of his life, his inspiration and friend is dying against his body, in the place he should occupy, had he been faster. Had he not grown weirdly complacent of his destiny. Haurchefant tries to smile for her, but he’s not even sure she’s watching anymore.

“Ah-, thank you. Thank you for, for becoming a-- a beacon of hope… in m-my darkest hour.” She’s choking a bit, and tears are starting to litter the corners of her eyes. “Mmm… Not-- not many people have loo-looked at me as more than… than a weapon.”

The heartbroken elezen sighs her name. Surely, that’s not true. How could it be? For how could someone -anyone- think of this marvelous person, of this splendid being as just a tool to use, a weapon to yield into battle. No one would think of this hope incarnate as lowly as that.

“A-and, I came to… Hn, I came to think of you more.. and more often, t-to wait our meetings ever… ever so excited... F-for meeting you was the best part-- the only part of… this long journey, that I won’t ever regret. T...That I cherish.” She looks away and with all the strength in her body, she grabs the gloved hand placed in her face. It’s bloody and dirty by now, but the Warrior only has moments left, and blood and dirt have long ceased to be a concern of hers. She kisses his palm, much to his surprise. “Thank you for-- for being my knight, for being there for me. I wish we could have been more-- more than friends. I’ve loved you for quite-, quite some time now, Hau--Haurchefant...”

Everyone around the two of them ceases to exist for the knight. The Archbishop has long fled the scene, his gods-damned Heaven’s Ward with him. Aymeric, Estinien, Lucia, they’re right beside them, watching in silence, petrified by the scene. Not like they matter to Haurchefant at the moment.

He can only think of his Warrior, of this curse. He can only think of guilt, of how tired he is, of how lovely the words of this marvelous woman ring in his ears.

How he won’t be hearing them again.

He can faintly hear, though, his own praises and words of love falling from his own lips in cascades. The knight is unable to stop them, the words and tears, and his feelings spilling from a broken, unmendable heart.

She seems surprised, and a pang of guilt stains her face. He knows -it’s not difficult to see- she’s already regretting her decision of telling him.

“Haur--”

“Please, don’t. Don’t.” The elezen’s voice is low, trembling. Just as she kissed his hand, he kisses hers now as it’s the last thing he could do in the world. “I wished the same, since you crossed our gate the first time. My lovely hero, my amazing Warrior...”

He opens his eyes, and finds her smiling. Smiling, as if the floor isn’t painted by her blood. As if her breaths aren’t growing more erratic, as if she’s not clinging to life by a thread. As if she will be alive on the morrow, ready for another day of saving the world. That’s the one, the expression that could turn Coerthas back into the green valleys it was so long ago. So very, very long ago.

And he returns it, even if it doesn’t reach his eyes, or his heart, or anywhere in his body, he smiles too.

“I love you.”

“Mm…”

He leans against her, kisses her forehead. Peppers her disheveled hair with his tears. Haurchefant hugs the Warrior of Light tight, tight in his arms, until she stops moving. And when it happens, he embraces her even tighter, not wanting to let go. Never wanting to let go.

His arms are still heavy with her body, but he’s already thinking. Should I kill myself, will all be for naught? Will I be back at Camp Dragonhead, just before I met her? Will I just die, at last?

But Haurchefant pauses for a moment, holding this dangerous train of thought at bay.

Should I kill myself, and die, I would have wasted the life she bestowed upon me.

  
  


So he hugs the small, unmoving woman tight in his embrace.

  
  
  


And weeps.


End file.
